


just ask (and we'll give you what you need)

by notcaycepollard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: BDSM, Established Relationship, F/M, Face Slapping, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo is being a brat, has been a brat for too long, and Gaby - Gaby is tired of it.</p>
<p>"Solo," she snaps, "on your knees, right now," and for all his disobedience in the field, his deliberate ignoring of her very careful directions, he just raises one eyebrow now, drops easily to his knees on the polished parquet of this hotel suite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just ask (and we'll give you what you need)

Solo is being a brat, has been a brat for too long, and Gaby - Gaby is  _tired_ of it.

"Solo," she snaps, "on your knees, right now," and for all his disobedience in the field, his deliberate ignoring of her very careful directions, he just raises one eyebrow now, drops easily to his knees on the polished parquet of this hotel suite.

Illya doesn't even look up from the file he's reading. Gaby suspects this is a ploy, a cover of stillness intended to hide his interest in the proceedings, but right now she doesn't care.

"Illya," she says, "pass me those handcuffs, if you would. _Danke_   _schön_." Solo's eyebrows are higher, now, and there's a twitch in his jaw, but he doesn't move, just grins lazily when she pulls his arms behind his back, cuffs his wrists together.

"You know I can break out of those in a heartbeat, darling," he drawls, and Gaby walks back to face him, considers him for a moment, then slaps him, hard.

"Yes," she agrees, watches the way his cheeks flush, his pupils dilate immediately. "You could, couldn't you." She walks away, across to the sideboard, drops three ice cubes into a glass and pours a large Campari. They're back in Italy for this mission, a lush hotel overlooking Venetian canals, and the air is stickily humid, especially with their shutters closed against the sun. Gaby's skin itches against the close heat, the confined air, and she unzips her dress, steps out of it, pads lightly back to where Solo is still kneeling. His eyes are tracking her movements, and his cheek is still red where she's hit him.

"Gaby-" he says, tilts his head in a way she thinks he doesn't quite mean to, and she sips her drink, looks down at him, transfers her glass from one hand to the other and slaps him again, an open-handed crack that resonates through the room.

"You are  _tiring me_ ," she bites out, slaps again, once, twice, until her hand's tingling with it. The Campari is sweetly bitter on her tongue. Illya makes a noise, tch-ing in the back of his throat, looks up from his file in a careful study of disinterest.

"He is not sorry," he rumbles, and no, he's right, Solo is not  _sorry_. She slaps Solo again, just once, and he makes a delicious noise.

"Come," she suggests to Illya. "Help me." He considers for a second, or pretends to consider, then sets the file aside, unfolds himself and comes to join them.

"How do you want my help?" he asks Gaby, and she starts by grabbing his collar, pulling him down for an open-mouthed kiss that's all tongue and teeth and wanting. Solo makes another noise, something that sounds equal parts outraged and desperate, and Gaby smiles at him in a way that's very pointed.

"Solo can break out of handcuffs," she says. "There's no fun in a restraint someone can break out of." She leans over Solo to unlock the cuffs, her breasts deliberately pressed against his face, and takes each wrist, pulls his hands up above his head. "Illya. Stand behind him. Hold his wrists."

"Easy," Illya says, disapproving, and Gaby grins again.

"Pin his wrists with one hand," she suggests, "and pull his hair with the other."

"That is better," Illya agrees, slides his fingers up into Solo's hair and tightens his grip until his head is pulled back to the perfect angle for Gaby. Solo moans, a sound that's tipped all the way over to desperate, and Gaby strokes his cheek, slaps, strokes again and backhands him across the mouth. It splits his lip, just a little, and he tongues over it, eyes hooded. 

"Good?" Gaby asks, takes a larger mouthful of her drink, and Solo breathes out.

"Yes," he agrees, "yes, Gaby, please, Illya,  _please_ ," and his knees must be aching, on the hard wood, but Gaby knows what he wants. What he needs.

"Illya," she says, flicks her eyes up to him, and he tightens his grip on Solo's wrists, presses his thumb into the delicate bones until Gaby knows the pressure will leave bruises. It just gets Solo looser, his tension all unravelling, and she can feel heat building in her own core. "Look at you," she says softly to Solo, "look at you," and runs her fingers across the livid red of his cheek, the tiny bloodstain on his lip. She pushes two fingers into his mouth, slides them deeper until they're up to the knuckle, and he just  _sucks_ , lets her fuck his mouth until he's moaning harder around her fingers.

She pulls her fingers out, slaps him again and leaves wet traces across his skin, shoves three fingers back in his mouth, and Solo's eyes flutter closed as Illya pulls his hair harder.

"He looks good," Illya acknowledges, and the way he looks at Gaby, that's all heat too.

"He is good," Gaby says, swallows the last of her drink and draws her fingers back, presses her index hard against the cut on his lower lip. "You want to be good for me, don't you, Solo."

" _Please,_ god, yes," Solo agrees, and Gaby makes an amused noise.

"No more disobeying orders in the field, hmm?" she says.

"He needs to ask for it," Illya murmurs, and Gaby agrees.

"Illya's right," she tells Solo. "You just have to ask for it. You know we're here."

"It's not as much fun," Solo admits, throws a cheeky look up at her, and oh,  _oh_ , if that's how he wants to play it.

"Illya," she says. "Swap places with me." He does, releasing Solo's hair but not letting go of his wrists, and Gaby reaches out, unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers and pulls out his cock. Illya is hard, has probably been hard since she took her dress off, and when she strokes the length of him, he makes a good sound, low and pleased. "So," she says, very deliberate. " _Cowboy._ You know what to do." Solo does; he mouths over the head then sucks Illya in deep and fast. Gaby steps around behind him, drops to her knees, presses herself up against his back and grabs his hair, pulls harder than Illya did.

"Ah," Illya gasps, gets his free hand back into Solo's hair too, and that's Gaby's cue to reach around, unbuckle Solo's trousers, palm his cock teasingly through the cotton of his underwear.

"Fuck him harder," she instructs Illya, "I want him to feel it in the back of his throat, I want Solo to  _take it_." Solo's cock twitches under her hand, at that, and she grazes her teeth across the skin of his neck, squeezes his cock a little. "Look at you," she says to Solo again, "look at what your team does for you when you need it," and he moans, ragged, around Illya's cock, chokes a little and sucks harder, and Illya  _growls_.

"Gaby," he warns, "I will-" and Gaby looks up at him, smiles wide.

"Come, Illya," she says, and he does, his hips jerking with it and his mouth open in a silent gasp. When he pulls back, Solo's whole body goes tight, desperate with wanting, and Gaby squeezes his cock again, pulls her hand away and gets to her feet. "Illya," she says, pulls off her underwear, and he gets the picture, lifts her up until her thighs are slung over his shoulders and his face is pressed against her wetness. She's so high up, dizzy with it, and when Illya drags his tongue up the length of her, sucks at her clit, she feels like she'll fall without something to hold on to.

Solo is watching from the floor, hungrily, his hands held carefully behind his back, and she locks eye contact with him through every moan and gasp and choked-out noise. She comes almost too quickly, is dizzy all over again, taps Illya's shoulder to let her down, and thinks,  _oh_ , yes.

"Clothes," she says, and Solo stands, strips off more quickly than she'd thought possible. "The bed," she demands, and he lies down, and instead of lifting her down to the ground, Illya just puts her straight onto Solo, her thighs straddling his hips. He arches up against her, makes a noise all needy and wanting, and she nods, slides down onto his cock, rides him until she can feel her second orgasm building hard. "Don't you dare come before me," she tells him, and he shakes his head, grabs her hips, sinks his fingers in like he's clinging to her. Illya's beside her, lounging on the bed and watching them intently, and he stretches up for a kiss, trails his mouth down her throat to her nipple, sucks a little, then grabs Solo by the hair, leans in and kisses him harder, and oh,  _oh_ , the second time, Gaby comes so hard she feels her thighs shaking.

"Can I-" Solo asks, his voice raw, and she nods, lets him flip her, and he  _shoves_ into her, fucks hard and with desperation. Illya reaches out, slaps Solo again, hard, open palm against cheek, and Solo yells, slams his hips against Gaby, comes hard enough that she thinks she can watch him fly apart and then knit back together.

"There," she says, after a moment. "You see how we take care of you, Napoleon."

"You and Peril," Solo says, panting, "are going to kill me."

"Hmmm," Illya grumbles, strokes a broad hand up Gaby's back and then across Solo's side. "Gaby is just giving you orders. The way you like."

"I do like," Solo agrees, and Gaby smirks.

"No more disobedience in the field," she says, firm. "All you have to do is  _ask_."


End file.
